


When Family Fails

by lovely_bones_137



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Child Abuse, Disordered Eating, Food Issues, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_bones_137/pseuds/lovely_bones_137
Summary: After the tragic events of his fifth year, Harry is sent back to the Dursleys. To him, it's just another summer. What his friends and teachers don't realize is that an ordinary summer to Harry is really a living hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've read a lot of different stories about Harry being abused, but none of them really worked for me. A lot of people went rather over-the-top with the abuse, as far as the book's original depiction goes, making it not quite fit in. Furthermore, while I do like the idea of Snape eventually seeing that he was wrong for being so terrible to Harry and making false assumptions about him, I don't think he has a Heart of Gold, and he definitely wouldn't come around very quickly. I wanted to write a fic that really talks about Harry's experience with the Dursleys, and how it affects him and his friends.

Sometimes, Harry wondered if people ever remembered him over the summer. Of course, he knew this was ridiculous, as he received letters often, and Hermione was always telling him he never wrote back enough. Still, in the hours and days and sometimes weeks between owls, he felt loneliness slipping in, along with a feeling of bitterness. It was nobody’s fault that Harry couldn’t spend as much time with his friends at The Burrow over the summer. Oftentimes, he felt too drained of energy to even want to go these days, anyway. But every September, when he returned to Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione shared stories of their summer adventures, Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was separated from them.

Harry loved The Burrow. He loved the chickens and ducks and garden gnomes, he loved eating third and fourth helpings of Mrs. Weasley’s delicious meals, and most of all, he loved feeling like he was somewhere he was safe and welcomed. And every summer that he was unable to revisit that place, he got the feeling he was becoming detached, like he was once a square on the quilt of the Weasley family, and over time, the seams were slowly ripping out. Harry knew it was a silly thought, knew that the entire Weasley family liked him alot, and maybe even always would, but he was simply terrified of the thought of losing them.

And so, every summer he had to spend entirely with the Dursleys, Harry found himself just a little bit paranoid that Ron and Hermione would like him less. And that was not a particularly pleasant thought. God knew he had been anything but kind to his friends this past term, what with the stress of Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s return, and Fudge’s incessant need to call him a liar. They seemed to have forgiven him readily, but he didn’t think he could bear it if he lost them. He had lost enough already. In fact, the only good thing to come out of this year was the fact that Fudge would no longer be able to deny Voldemort’s return.

Harry was used to grueling summers with the Dursleys. As soon as he had finished his final goodbyes to a solemn Ron and a weeping Hermione, and stepped off the Hogwarts Express and into the steam and filth of King’s Cross, he knew that this summer would be no different, dead godfather and returned Dark Lord be damned. Maybe all of the household chores would help keep his mind off of the grief.

Uncle Vernon was waiting impatiently by the barrier.

“Hullo, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said sullenly.

“Don’t refer to me as any uncle of yours, boy!” Vernon hissed, his tiny eyes already bulging impossibly. “I don’t want these people think I have relations to- to- your sort!”

Harry nodded glumly. “Yes Unc- sir.”

Uncle Vernon marched Harry to the car, grumbling audibly as Harry had trouble fitting his things into the trunk, but making no attempt to help in any way.

“I swear, if that bloody bird makes any sound over the holidays, I’ll kill and stuff it myself!” he warned as Hedwig let out a hoot.

“She’d be a lot quieter if you just let her fly,” Harry pointed out hotly. “She’s an owl. That’s what they do. They fly and make sounds.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Vernon said in a dangerous voice, glaring at Harry in his rearview mirror. “And there’s no way I’m letting you keep that ruddy bird out again. You’re being bloody ungrateful to Petunia and I. We took you in, fed you, clothed you…”

Harry pressed his cheek to the window and ignored Vernon’s rant; he had heard it hundreds of times before. He watched the scenery pass by and he let out a deep sigh, already wishing for the return journey to Hogwarts.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Up! Get up, boy!” Petunia screeched, rapping on the door with one hand and undoing the many locks Vernon installed onto it with the other.  
Harry groaned and sat up in his bed. He had been wide awake for hours due to yet another torturous nightmare, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to rest. Had his trunk not been confiscated as soon as he arrived, he could have already gotten a head start on his homework, but the Dursleys never let him have his things over the summer, except two years ago, when he threatened them with his godfather…

Trying to ignore the pricking at the corners of his eyes, Harry shook any thoughts of Sirius out of his head and hurried to the door before Petunia shouted at him for being too slow.

On his first day back, Harry’s relatives had already started to severely reduce his rations, giving him no more than a (purposely) burnt piece of toast and the mushiest banana Petunia could find. His stomach was already growling the night before.

Harry had secretly smuggled about a dozen treacle tarts into his robes during the farewell feast at Hogwarts, along with twice as many sweets from the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The loose floorboard in his room now held a decent supply of chocolate frogs, licorice wands, and a few pumpkin pasties. He had made sure not to take too many, as to avoid suspicion from his friends. Besides, he could only live so long on sweets alone.

“I sure hope you haven’t forgotten how to make breakfast, boy,” Uncle Vernon grumbled as he flipped through the morning paper. Harry did not respond; he was concentrating very hard on not burning the bacon. “I’m sure they never even have you do proper work at that freak school. The whole lot of you should be doing hard labor, that’s what I think. Nothing like backbreaking work to squash the freak out of you!” He ended that with a laugh, Petunia joining in with her own nervous whinny.

Dudley, who had been busy staring at the television screen, looked up with squinty little eyes, momentarily distracted. “I’m hungry,” he whined.

“Oh, my poor, poor Duddykins! Mummy will make sure you get the nice big breakfast you deserve!” she said in a horrendously syrupy voice. In the same breath, she turned and snapped at Harry. “Hurry up with the breakfast!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said. He finished cooking the bacon and set it on a plate to cool while he put bread in the toaster. As he waited for the bread to toast, he pulled jam from the fridge and dished out bacon onto three separate plates, making sure he heaped twice than what was considered a healthy amount onto Dudley’s plate. Then, he started scrambling eggs. After slathering butter and jam onto five pieces of toast (as Vernon and Dudley would never accept anything less than two pieces of toast at a time), he cooked the eggs out evenly and set everything onto the plates.

“About time,” Vernon barked, slamming down his newspaper and tucking in. Harry washed the pans and cleaned the counter while he listened to his relatives complain about him.

“Mrs. Pickering saw that boy come in yesterday. I heard her talking with Ms. Levitt about him- it was horrifying! She was saying everything I’ve been saying for sixteen years. She said he’s too skinny and that his clothes look horrid, the way they’re too big for him, and his hair is an awful mess- do you know how embarrassing that was for me?”

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter how much you feed that boy, he’ll always be runty. He can’t even appreciate a proper meal, so it isn’t worth feeding him more than he needs,” Vernon reasoned.

 _More than I need?_ Harry scoffed to himself. _They barely give me enough to survive!_

“How many times do I have to tell you, boy? Don’t skimp on the butter!” Vernon shouted into the kitchen.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said dully, not bothering to point out the plate of butter he had set out on the table.

And so, the first morning with the Dursleys passed uneventfully.

Once Vernon had gone to work (after a full five minutes of threatening Harry), and Dudley had gone to play video games at a friend’s house (after getting a good punch to Harry’s shoulder), Petunia assigned chores.

“The garden needs weeding and watering, and the shrubs need trimming. I also expect the lawn to be mowed and the outside of all the windows washed.”  
Harry got to work right away. He was not allowed breakfast, but Petunia did have the good grace to let him have a cup of water.

Outside work was actually rather pleasant at first. The real heat of summer had yet to set in, and the morning air was even a bit cool. Harry was relieved to have something to keep him busy, although he knew that, once he was blistered from yard work and malnourished later on in the summer, he would be less grateful. But for the moment, he relished it.

No thoughts accompanied him as he gardened, mowed the lawn, and washed the windows. For once in many months, he felt something close to untroubled. Perhaps ‘numb’ would have been a more accurate word, but still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. And Harry was indeed a beggar at this point in his life.  
Harry’s lunch was a piece of stale rye and some corned beef that Petunia had found near the back of her refrigerator. She was even kind enough to throw in a tomato slice for him.

That night, while Uncle Vernon did indulge in his usual grumbling and complaining, was not as nasty as he could have been. Harry took this as a stroke of luck.

He ate a treacle tart for dinner.

Already, Harry had begun obsessively recounting his food supply. Ten treacle tarts, ten chocolate frogs, seven licorice wands, and five pumpkin pasties. No matter how he stretched it, it wouldn’t be enough to last him the summer. He knew how easily Vernon’s patience could run thin, and he couldn’t anticipate Aunt Petunia giving him a meal every day.

Dudley always kept mini packets of crisps around the house- maybe he could steal one or two of those? Fruit was also relatively easy to steal. Harry longed for some Muggle money, that way he could buy some canned food. He had nothing but wizard money, and all of it was either in his vault or locked away along with his other things.

Harry sighed, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. It was going to be a long summer.


	2. Chapter 2

Hedwig gave a mournful hoot as Harry gave her his daily meal, this time two baby carrots and a single slice of turkey breast. He was never one to turn down food, but his friend would die if she didn’t eat.

  
“C’mon, Hedwig. I know it isn’t much, but I even managed to get you some meat this time. Please eat it?”

  
Her blue eyes, far wiser than her non-magical kin, were doleful, but she relented. Harry managed to squeeze his fingers through the bars of her dreadfully small cage and brush her neck feathers. She fluffed up to his touch, allowing him to scratch her.

  
Harry smiled. Despite Hedwig’s often moody nature, she was the only living thing Harry knew loved him. Ron and Hermione were friends, sure, and _he_ loved them both deeply, but the thought of them loving him back? He just didn’t see it.

  
He shook his head clear of the negative thoughts that roosted in his mind every summer. It didn’t matter how many adventures he and his friends went through over the school year; every holiday brought back the same anxieties.

  
Hedwig gave another hoot as Harry stopped scratching her, and nearly immediately, there was a roar from downstairs.

  
“Shut that thing up!” Uncle Vernon shouted.

  
Harry didn’t reply, knowing a response would only incur more rage.

  
“You’ve got to be quiet now, Hedwig. The Dursley are going to sleep soon.”

  
Watching Hedwig eat made Harry’s stomach grumble, so he turned instead to the floorboard that concealed his rapidly dwindling supply of food. It had only been a week and he had already scarfed down half of what he had smuggled into the house. Grabbing one of the few remaining treacle tarts, Harry firmly resolved that he would only dip into his stash if he had given his meal to Hedwig or wasn’t given a meal in the first place.

  
The next day as Harry set to dusting every available surface in the house (though he had already completed that chore three days prior), Dudley decided it was his duty to watch over his cousin. “Watching over” generally consisted of a swift kick in the shins or a punch in the ribs if Harry paused for more than two seconds, sneezed, or breathed too loudly.

  
Harry ignored him. It was just another game his cousin played. After a while he would get bored and lumber away in search of food or his gang. He was not wrong, and though when he was done dusting his lower legs were bruised and his ribs were tender, Harry felt blessed that his glasses hadn’t been broken. Maybe Dudley was saving that one for later in the summer.

  
And so, a month passed with little more than a few bruises from his cousin and only a single slap from his Uncle.

  
Two weeks in, Harry had broken his promise to himself and gorged on the remaining food in his hoard. His stomach had been weak, however, and Harry had ended up vomiting it all up, what little nutrients he could have gleaned from the sweets disappearing down the toilet.

  
Harry had noticed that his ribs were far more prominent than they had been at the end of last term, but that was alright. He was a Seeker, and Seekers were supposed to be light. Besides, the lack of food served as a continual punishment for the death of his godfather. Every time his stomach grumbled, or he felt dizzy from malnourishment, Harry reminded himself that Sirius couldn’t feel _anything_ anymore, so he might as well be grateful.

  
One morning, Harry awoke to find his door unlocked. It was far later than he usually woke up, and the lingering smell of eggs told Harry that somebody else had cooked breakfast. As Harry descended the stairs, eyes darting for a sign of Dudley waiting to pummel him, he noticed Aunt Petunia standing next to the kitchen table, nose high in the air and her hands on her hips. Set out was a full piece of toast, some jam, and a scrambled egg.

  
“Breakfast,” she sniffed, turning away from the meal but gesturing towards the plate stiffly. “I made something special for Duddykins and Vernon; they wanted _good_ food this morning.” Harry’s eyes widened, but he hurried to the table, not even bothering to sit down as he ate. He was careful to not eat too quickly, pausing to drink water often and monitoring his stomach, lest he get sick again. But he managed to finish all of the food, feeling a surprising and pleasant sense of fullness. And a bit of guilt.

  
“Today, I want you to do the dishes and weed the flowerbeds. Duddy’s out with his friends, and Vernon,” Aunt Petunia swallowed, almost nervously, “Vernon will be staying at the office a bit later tonight. You will cook dinner, and it had better be good. But-” she broke off, pausing for a long moment, as if the next part was very difficult for her to say. “The bird can go out. For a bit. Just so it can stop that awful screeching. And make sure it gets back before Vernon gets here!”

  
Harry nodded, dazed. All he had to do was wash the dishes, weed a bit, and cook dinner? What would he even do with all the extra time he had? He grabbed his plate and started in on the dishes.

  
“Harry.”

  
Harry almost dropped his plate in shock.

  
“Lil- your mother- always had homework to do. Over the summer. So… you can get some of your supplies from the cupboard. For studying.” Aunt Petunia looked as though she might explode from all the strength it took her to say those words.

“Y-yeah. Okay,” Harry said quickly. And then, “Thanks.”

  
Petunia coughed, then hurried out of the kitchen.

  
Harry was stunned. Had his aunt just been... nice to him? _God, I must really be in bad shape,_ he thought.

  
After he had finished his morning chores (and let an ecstatic Hedwig out), Aunt Petunia watched nervously as Harry pulled some supplies out of the cupboard. He decided to only grab a few things, because Aunt Petunia seemed to grow more nervous and frustrated each time he moved anything, and he didn’t dare lose the chance to actually get some holiday schoolwork done for once.

  
He had only taken a quill and ink well, some parchment, and three books, but it at least relieved some of the nagging anxiety Harry had been feeling all summer. He was tired of showing up each term with nothing finished, and each of his teachers looking either disappointed or upset.

  
“Thanks,” he mumbled as Petunia locked up the cupboard. She made a sound in the back of her throat that might have been “You’re welcome.”


	3. Chapter 3

Aunt Petunia’s odd behavior only lasted a day, and Harry was neither surprised nor disappointed. However… maybe he was imagining it, but the meals he was given did seem to improve in quality, even if only slightly so. The fruit was less bruised, and he could usually anticipate a slice or two of deli meat every other day, which, of course, went straight to Hedwig. He had to make good on his promise to return her to her cage, because if Vernon were to find out she was missing…

Uncle Vernon was, however, being far less nasty than he had been during previous summers. In fact, Harry had hardly seen him at all. Sure, he always had to endure Vernon’s usual rants and raves during breakfast and dinner, as well as the occasional yelling after he got home from work, but he didn’t have the usual feeling of his uncle breathing down his neck at every moment. Harry wondered if this was because Dudley did all the dirty work for him now. Or maybe torturing him just wasn’t as fun anymore.

While Harry had been spiteful at the beginning of summer, he could feel the spirit draining out of him with every second he spent at Number Four, Privet Drive. The heat of summer and the lethargy from malnourishment and grief was setting in more and more, and it was all Harry could do to not drop dead asleep every moment of the day. He didn’t even bother to duck Dudley’s swings; it took too much energy, and it just made his cousin angrier if he did, anyway. His ribs ached and, more often than not, his wrists and upper arms carried several bruises.

However, as Harry became more drained, Hedwig became more restless. Her single day of freedom was not nearly enough to satisfy her needs; she was a bird, after all. She was trying hard to be quiet, Harry could tell, but it was simply too difficult. The occasional hoot turned into more insistent shrieks within a couple of days, until Harry was forced to cover her cage. This was not, of course, enough to stop her angry and indignant cries, and she eventually resorted to rattling the lock on her cage along with her shrieks. Every night became a battle between Harry and his owl, because, while Aunt Petunia was more tolerant of Hedwig’s noise, Vernon’s patience was nonexistent from the beginning.

It was exactly five weeks into summer when Hedwig began another fit of screams.

“BOY!” Vernon bellowed from his seat on the couch, despite the fact that Harry was just in the next room, wiping down the kitchen table after dinner.

“She just needs to be let-”

“I’m warning you! If that bird doesn’t shut the hell up, I _will_ get rid of it!”

“The only way to make her be quiet is to-”

“DON’T TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME!”

Harry was seething, the washrag dripping water onto the floor from how tightly he was clenching it. “Please,” he started, trying to make his tone as even as possible. “The only reason she’s making so much noise is because she’s stuck in that tiny cage. She needs to be let outside. I promise, I won’t send letters- you can watch me let her go! Please, just let me take her out, just for the night! She’ll be so much quieter then!”

Uncle Vernon mused, his mustache twitching and his eyes squinting with the effort it took to think. Another shriek from Hedwig sealed the deal.

“Fine,” he growled, heaving himself to his feet. He jammed a thick finger into Harry’s chest. “But I want her in that cage first thing tomorrow morning- Petunia!”

Petunia started from her own position on the couch, ignoring Dudley’s sigh of impatience as she blocked his view of the TV screen.

“Make sure to lock her up,” Vernon ordered.

Petunia nodded quickly, then resumed watching the telly herself.

Vernon jerked his head towards the staircase, and Harry (trying hard to contain his relief), led the way.

Hedwig was a flurry of snow white wings that was out the window in less than two seconds after her cage was opened. Vernon spluttered as feathers were launched into the air, and he let out a squawk that any bird would be proud of as he somehow managed to inhale one. Harry looked at the floor and worried his lip to stop from smirking.

When Vernon’s face had returned to its usual shade of puce, Harry found himself being shoved backwards onto his bed, the back of his knees colliding painfully with the frame. He prepared himself for a blow, but Vernon had already stormed out of the room, muttering curses along the way.

Harry realized that he was still holding the wet rag. He sighed and rubbed at his legs before returning downstairs to finish his chores.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Waking up long before the sun rose had become a new habit with Harry. Despite how tired he was, nothing could stop his recurring nightmares, and now, waking up with Sirius’s dead face glued to his retinas was simply a part of the routine.

It was hot out, but Harry had been sure to leave the window open overnight, just in case Hedwig had come back early. His room was damp and airless. The alarm clock read 3:57.

Harry meticulously arranged his stash of supplies, even though they were all in perfect order. He had finished all of the work for the books he had taken, and even though the text was the driest material in the world, Harry had read each book front to back already, and had taken to doodling in the margins with his remaining ink. He would clean it off magickally once he got back to Hogwarts.

His heart ached for the castle for the umpteenth time. He longed for the cosy Gryffindor common room, with its roaring fire and plump armchairs, and most of all, his friends. Hell, he would even take the Slytherin common room over the Dursleys; at least it was chilly down in the dungeons, and Harry was sure he could have water anytime he wanted to.

Harry dipped his quill back into the inkwell, only to find it empty. The sticky residue that clung to the sides of the bottle was too congealed to allow him anything else to write with. Frustrated, Harry stuffed his supplies back beneath the loose floorboard, bending his quill and nearly breaking the spine of one of his books. Uncle Vernon gave a snort from his bedroom, and Harry paused, suddenly realizing how loud he had been.

After waiting half a minute, Harry let out his breath and returned (quietly) to his bed. A glance at his alarm clock told him it was nearly five. His fingers drummed on his pillow, and he stared anxiously out the window. Hedwig was usually back by 4:30. Surely she knew the Dursleys would be waking soon?

Minutes passed, until Harry knew his relatives would be waking within moments. Still, he saw no trace of his companion in the skies. Maybe she was up on the roof, enjoying a few last moments of freedom?

Vernon’s heavy footfalls sounded outside the door, and Harry sighed with relief when he heard his uncle continue down the stairs. But Petunia came a minute later, rapping smartly on Harry’s door before undoing all of the locks.

Harry stood at the window, palms up in a helpless gesture. Petunia scowled when she noticed the owl's absence, and for a moment, she looked ready to cry out to Vernon. But a second passed, and then another, and still she did nothing. Finally, she hurried forward, key in hand, and locked the cage up tightly. Then, she pulled the cover over the cage, and pressed the key firmly in Harry’s palm.

“I-”

Petunia shook her head sharply before leaving, calling to Harry without even looking back, “Close that window, it’s boiling in here. Now hurry up and get breakfast ready!”

Harry closed the window, then hastily stuffed the key under the loose floorboard before rushing down to cook breakfast, his mind racing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING- This chapter contains graphic depictions of child abuse, both physical and verbal. Please, be careful reading!
> 
> Also, I love any form of constructive criticism! Tell me your thoughts/suggestions for plot, writing, characters, etc.! I love to hear what I can improve on. Thank you!

“Is that bird back in it’s cage?” Vernon asked gruffly. He was sitting on the couch, enjoying his morning telly as Harry busied himself with breakfast.

“Yes,” Petunia replied. The single syllable held a tremor that only Harry caught.

“Good. I expect that thing to be silent from now on-  _ or else _ ,” Vernon warned.

Harry didn’t respond, but he did try to catch his aunt’s eye. Petunia pointedly ignored him and busied herself about the dining room table, rearranging napkins and plates and fussing over doilies. Harry gave up and turned to finish his uncle’s omelet, trying to sort out his brain's endless barrage of questions.

Why was Petunia covering for him? Her behavior before had been odd, but this was beyond anything Harry could have anticipated. Petunia, while often less physically threatening towards Harry, was always clear in her disdain towards him. Was she really taking pity on him, or was she trying to manipulate him? And if she  _ was  _ trying to manipulate him (which was almost certain), what could she possibly want from him? Suddenly, another issue rose to the forefront of Harry’s mind.

_ Where is Hedwig? _

His owl had never abandoned him before, and while Harry knew that her living conditions were deplorable, she was a smart bird. Hedwig was well aware of what the Dursleys were capable of doing, and Harry was certain she knew that her disappearance would spell out trouble for her companion. Which begged the question-  _ Is she okay? _

Harry remembered how she had been intercepted only just last school year. She had been injured in the process, but, thankfully, nursed back to health. If she had been caught again, who would be able to help her this time? Harry worried his bottom lip, terrified for his friend.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hedwig did not come back later that day. With a pang of guilt, Harry had eaten the slice of meat his aunt had allowed him. But really, it wasn’t meant for him; Hedwig could be alone and hurt and hungry somewhere, wondering if Harry was going to come to her rescue. The thought made Harry sick.

To make matters worse, any conversation Harry tried to initiate with Petunia failed miserably. Every time he even opened his mouth to speak when neither Vernon nor Dudley were around, she either coughed and quickly left the room, or snapped at him to get on with his chores.

Finally, on the second afternoon since Hedwig had been gone, Harry approached his aunt after his chores, determined to get some answers.

Petunia was peering through the kitchen blinds to watch Mrs. Next Door water her garden (Harry had an idea she was going to give him new instructions next time he went to grab the hose). When Harry cleared his throat to announce his presence, she started so violently it disrupted her potted daisies at the windowsill. As she steadied it, she managed to ask, rather waspishly, “Are you finished with everything?”

“Yes, but-”

“Alright, then go t-”

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry interrupted, suddenly wondering if this was a wise idea after all.

But his aunt simply pursed her lips and turned to face him, looking frustrated and yet, somehow resigned, as if she had been anticipating this for some time.

“Yes?” she asked, in an almost tired voice.

“What’s with- are you…?” Harry realized he hadn’t thought this far ahead into the conversation. He couldn’t very well ask “What are you playing at?” or “What’s the big idea, suddenly being nice to me?”, after all.

“Do you have a question or not?” she demanded.

“I- it’s just-” Harry saw Aunt Petunia’s bony hand start the impatient search for a nearby spatula, and he hurriedly finished his thought. “What are you trying to do?”

Petunia’s lips went thinner than before (a rather impressive feat), and she looked as though she was seriously debating whether or not she should try to find the spatula again. But, after a moment, she conceded. “You’re not of much use to us half-starved.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Uncle Vernon about Hedwig?” Harry challenged.

“You’re not very helpful half beaten to death, either.”

“And the homework?” Harry pressed. He was getting frustrated. There had to be something else. Something  _ more _ .

Petunia let out a huff of breath, as annoyed as her nephew. “Go up to your room, Harry.”

“But-”

_ “Just go to your room!” _ she shrieked, hand lashing out in an attempt to hit him. Harry, however, was much faster, and he had already jolted to the staircase before she was even halfway across the kitchen.

Harry slammed his door, the many locks rattling behind him. He glanced, half hopeful, towards Hedwig’s cage, and felt another wave of frustration pass through when he found it empty- which was stupid, because his window wasn’t even open. He kicked his wardrobe, then fell onto his bed, eyes watering at the new pain in his foot.

She had called him Harry. It wasn’t the first time this summer, either. What was it supposed to  _ mean _ ? She couldn’t have started being nice for no reason, but to think she was actually _growing fond_ of him was childish. And yet, she didn’t seem to be manipulating him, either. It was bloody confusing, and Harry had already dealt with more than enough confusion in the past few months.

He was tired of it. Tired of being locked away during the summer, tired of being treated like shit by his relatives, tired of being  _ confused  _ by everything and everyone.

His relatives had taken away all communication with the outside world, and it was like Ron and Hermione didn’t even care. Every summer, he was forced to come back to this place, and every summer, his friends would encourage him to keep in touch, but they never actually did anything when he didn’t write. Sure, they would get a bit nervous, berate him when he finally saw them again, but they never actually  _ did  _ anything. Never thought, “Hey, maybe Harry’s not writing because his relatives treat him so poorly.”

Or… maybe they did. It wasn’t like Harry was exactly  _ secretive  _ when it came to the Dursleys. Okay, so he didn’t really mention them starving him, and he certainly didn’t say anything about them hitting him, but surely they knew? With the way the Dursleys acted at the train station, and the Christmas presents they sent him… well, it was kind of obvious. And Ron had  _ seen  _ the bars at his window. They had to know. So, the next logical train of thought was, of course, that they didn’t care.

Yes, Harry knew that his situation  _ wasn’t normal _ . But that was just like the rest of him, wasn’t it? He wasn’t normal. He was a freak when he thought he was a muggle and he was a freak in the wizarding world. So maybe it wasn’t natural to be starved and locked away and hit by your relatives. It wasn’t really that big of a deal- and in a way, Harry felt as though he probably deserved it. After all the people who had gotten hurt because of him-  _ died  _ because of him- he supposed it was only fair that his home life be less than satisfactory. But a part of him had hoped Ron and Hermione would care, even if only a little bit, about how the Dursleys treated him. Apparently, he was wrong.

Hermione was probably at The Burrow right that moment, laughing with Ron and Ginny and Fred and George and-

Harry was snapped out of his thoughts by heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. He only had a second to sit up and register Hedwig’s uncovered and empty cage before his unlocked door was thrown open to reveal his uncle.

“What the  _ devil  _ did you do?” Vernon growled.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“My wife is downstairs,  _ crying _ , and you pretend you’re innocent?” he roared.

“I don’t know why she’s crying, I swear!” Harry protested, his hands immediately going up to gesture his surrender.

Vernon’s mustache twitched dangerously. He swelled and surveyed the room with tiny, black eyes (so similar to Hagrid’s, and yet so different). His entire face popped when he saw the empty cage.

“WHERE’S THAT BIRD?”

“I-” Harry began, but he broke off. There was no plausible excuse he could make.

Vernon strode forward and grabbed the front of Harry’s too-large shirt in one fist, spittle flying from his mouth. “Did you let that thing out again, just so you could send letters to your friends? How did you get the key?” He shook Harry roughly, but did not get an answer.  _ “How did you get the key?” _

“I didn’t take it! I didn’t do anything!” Harry cried.

Uncle Vernon dragged Harry out of his room and down the stairs, fuming. He pointed one thick finger to where all the keys were lined up on hooks, revealing the empty slot where Hedwig’s padlock should have been.

“Why did you lie to me, boy?” Harry was thrown against the stairwell, and he felt his fingers brush against his familiar cupboard’s door frame. For a wild moment, he wished he was locked inside of it, spiders and all; at least he would be safe there.

“I didn’t- I-”

Vernon closed in again, effectively cutting of Harry’s stammers. “You took the key-  _ stole our personal property _ \- and used it to unlock that ruddy bird’s cage, and you wrote a letter to your friends!  _ What did the letter say _ ?”

Harry found himself making eye contact with Petunia, who was huddled on the living room couch and staring at the scene before her with wide, teary eyes. He wanted to ask for help, to call to her to explain the situation to Vernon, but he didn’t dare. He could already see in her face that she wouldn’t utter a word in his defence.

“It- I asked for them to pick me up,” Harry admitted, dropping his head down in defeat.

Vernon’s eyes bulged and a vein at his temple throbbed, but when he spoke, it was impossibly calm. “You asked for  _ those people _ to come to  _ our house  _ to take you somewhere else? Do you know how much we’ve done for you, boy? We give you food, clothes,  _ your own room _ , and you repay us by asking  _ your kind  _ to come  _ here  _ where  _ everyone  _ can see them, and take you  _ away  _ from us? I do all the work in this house, boy! I do all the work to put food on my family’s table, and you can’t handle a few  _ household chores _ ?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

“Look at me, boy,” Vernon growled.

Harry’s head rose to see his uncle’s fist raised.

The first blow landed squarely. Harry’s head snapped to the side as pain bloomed on his jaw. Another blow hit his cheek, Vernon’s ring leaving a streak of warmth and stickiness. Harry doubled over as he was hit in the gut, and twice in the ribs. Vernon grabbed Harry by the wrist and dragged him back up the stairs, shouting fragmented insults all the way.

Harry was thrown bodily into his room. The door slammed shut and each lock clicked madly for a few moments and then stopped, until there was only his own heavy breathing, the sound of Vernon lumbering down the stairs, and a much fainter, single, choked sob from Aunt Petunia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that I'm so slow with updating! I'm working on Chapter 5 right now, but I don't know when it will be posted for sure! Thank you all so much for the comments, I really appreciate them all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains graphic depictions of child abuse.
> 
> Wow! This has taken me waaayyy too long, and I'm really sorry, guys!  
> Please, let me know if any of this seems unrealistic for the Harry Potter universe (including if any of the characters are OOC). I love any comments/criticisms/etc. that you feel are necessary to give! Thanks for all of your comments, I appreciate all of them :)

Harry was locked in his room for three days. He was not fed any meals. Twice a day, Aunt Petunia would unlock the door and stiffly usher him to use the loo and get a quick drink of water from the sink. She never said a word. Harry did the same.

The bruises on his cheek and jaw were dark and purpled, with a raised welt on his right cheekbone where Uncle Vernon’s ring had struck. His bony wrists were also mottled with contusions. On his left, he could even make out the deep purple outlines of his Uncle’s fingers. But it wasn’t pain Harry hadn’t endured before. He had been hit by innumerable Bludgers. He had faced the Cruciatus Curse at age fourteen. And only a couple months ago, he had watched his godfather fall backwards into the Veil…

Harry spent most of his free time huddled at the edge of his bed, turned away from the window. Vernon had kindly fitted a few boards of plywood into the frame from the outside, to ensure Hedwig could not return. Harry doubted she would come back, anyway. The way he saw it, she had either been caught by Death Eaters, or she was soaring happily farther and farther away from Harry every night, catching as many mice as she wanted, and not even thinking about her old life.

Harry felt horrible for thinking it, but he almost hoped she had been captured.

On the fourth day, Aunt Petunia opened the door in the same manner she had for the previous three days. She sucked her cheeks in and stuck her nose in the air, eyes narrowed and focused on anything but Harry. She held a shallow bowl of cold soup.

Harry cleared his throat, but did not otherwise move from his bed. Petunia jerked her head meaningfully towards the bathroom.

“Aunt Petunia.”

She sucked in a deep, sharp breath, but did nothing else to acknowledge that Harry had even spoken.

Harry felt a quick spark of anger rise within him. His hands balled against his sheets.

“Aunt Petunia,” he repeated, his teeth clenched.

She set her jaw, and her nose twitched.

“He’s not even here!” Harry cried, standing up.

“Bathroom. Go.” Her voice was strained with anxiety. And suddenly, Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. This constant worry- this  _ edge _ she always seemed to be on- was infuriating.

“Why are  _ you  _ even scared of him?” Harry cried. “He’s never even hit you!”

Though she still remained silent, there was answer in Petunia’s anxious eyes.

_ But he could. _

Harry imagined what she saw- a malnourished, defeated boy, with hollow cheeks and hollow eyes. A boy with bruises and the imprints of her husband’s hands. A boy held captive in a bedroom that was hardly his, drowning in her son’s old clothes, and carrying the eyes of her dead sister. A constant reminder of everything she never did for Lily. He might as well be a menagerie of everything she feared the most. Was this what boggarts felt like?

Harry collapsed back onto the bed, weary.

“Why be with someone you’re scared of?” he asked. He didn’t expect an answer. How could someone answer a question like that?

Petunia carefully set the bowl of soup just inside Harry’s door frame.

“I don’t know,” she replied. The answer almost seemed to shock her, like it was a realization she had only just come to.

Harry flopped backwards onto his mattress. With an empty laugh, he spoke again. “You could just leave him, you know.” He barely caught the sad quirk of her lips, the slightest shake of her head, before she shut the door and locked it.

Harry didn’t have the energy to remind her he still needed to use the loo.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That night, Harry could tell by the slam of the door that Vernon was in a bad mood. What about, he hadn’t the slightest clue. Maybe traffic hadn’t been fast enough. Maybe he hadn’t gotten to yell to as many people as he wanted to that day. Maybe the bakery had been out of his favorite flavour of doughnut. Really, the list was endless.

The distant roar of his Uncle’s displeasure could be heard only minutes later. Harry managed to catch something about dinner amidst the string of obscenities. Then, the thud of his large feet could be heard pounding up the stairs as his words became clearer.

“That ruddy boy… never doing anything in this bloody household…just wanted some effing dinner…what in the devil does he think he’s doing… sitting around all day…bloody ungrateful little…”

The locks were undone, and soon the open door frame was blocked entirely by Harry’s massive uncle. His tie was off kilter, and his eye was twitching horribly.

“Get down there and just- just cook me up a bloody meal!” he huffed, out of breath from his trek up the stairs.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said quickly, slipping past his relative and hurrying down into the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was sat at the dining table, hands folded neatly and her lips sucked inwards with worry.

Whatever Petunia had attempted to make, it hadn’t gone well. Harry scraped the burnt remains of a pasta into the garbage, trying not to breathe through his nose. The cutting board held a few uneven slices of tomato, and the potted daisies had finally found their way into the sink, soil and petals and shards of broken terra cotta clogging up the drain.

Harry could feel his uncle’s eyes boring into his back as he dutifully cleaned up the mess, then moved to root around in the refrigerator.

It wasn’t Harry’s best meal. The chicken breast was dry, he was sure, and the sauce… well, it was really more of a congealed mess of mushy tomato and spices. Thankfully, he had managed to dish up some mashed potatoes. The starch was usually enough to appease the Dursleys, and even hold a few nasty comments about Harry’s cooking at bay.

Vernon grumbled as Harry set out the family’s dishes, but tucked in immediately, obviously quite hungry. Harry washed the cooking ware and tidied up the counters while listening to the scrape of cutlery on plates.

It was eerily quiet. Dudley seemed to have sensed the mood of the evening and hadn’t turned on the telly. His boredom was soon apparent, however, as he issued frequent sighs between every bite, and his foot ended up kicking against the chair of his leg. Through a few stolen side glances, Harry could see his uncle’s face growing more irritated by the second.

That was never good. If Vernon was ever angry at Dudley, it ended up being transferred to the proverbial punching bag of the family. Harry’s sore ribs didn’t particularly feel up to a match tonight, so he washed up as quickly as possible, trying to keep everything spotless.

Vernon and Dudley finished their meals quickly. Aunt Petunia, however, simply pushed the food around her plate, peas rolling around under her fork. Her free hand worried a napkin into pieces. Her eyes were downcast for the duration of the dinner.

Dudley pushed his plate away and hurried to watch the telly. Petunia politely excused herself, leaving a full plate behind. Harry felt uneasiness creep in as Vernon remained at the table, staring darkly at his nephew.

“Do you, er, need anything else? I can make some pudding, or, or something-” Harry stammered.

Vernon stood up sharply, his chair scraping against the floor. He advanced on Harry, backing him into the corner of the kitchen, away from the view of the rest of the family.

“What did you do to her?” he asked, in a terrifyingly quiet voice.

“I- I don’t-”

Vernon stabbed a thick finger into the hollow of Harry’s chest.

“What sort of-  _ funny business _ \- did you use on her?” he ground out, a muscle in his jaw jumping madly. He was obviously trying to keep as quiet as possible, but his body was threatening to explode at any moment.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Harry insisted in a furious whisper. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, really- maybe she’s just upset about something!”

“Bloody likely, boy! I know my wife!” Vernon’s voice was rising quickly. His face was turning as purple as the bruises he had given Harry only a few days previously.

“Please, Uncle Vernon, I haven’t done anything. I can’t even do  _ that stuff  _ outside school, you know that! The Ministry would’ve-”

Vernon’s hand closed around Harry’s throat. He wasn’t aiming to kill, but it did make breathing uncomfortable. It was a threat.

In complete power, Vernon allowed himself a moment to collect himself. After a few seconds, he returned to his nephew, voice in check once again. “I don’t allow lies in my house, boy. You know that.”

Harry swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing against his uncle’s fingers. “I know.”

“I’m going to repeat my question, and you’re going to answer truthfully. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do to my wife?”

Harry cast about wildly, trying to find an answer that would satisfy his uncle. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Aunt Petunia. She came to let me use the loo twice today, like usual, and she seemed fine both times. You can ask her! I didn’t do  _ anything _ ,” Harry promised.

Uncle Vernon’s mustache twitched wildly. The sweat from his palm made Harry’s throat feel wet and hot. He swallowed again, anticipating Vernon’s next move.

His uncle released Harry’s throat and instead grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer to himself. His voice rose with each word, until he ended in a deafening roar.

“Now you listen here,  _ freak.  _ This- this  _ nonsense  _ that you do has gone  _ too far _ . We’ve tried, for  _ fifteen years _ , to squash it out of you, and you turn around and pull a cheap trick like  _ this,  _ and you have the  _ gall _ to  _ lie _ about it!”

“Uncle Vernon, please! I didn’t do anything!”

“Shut up, boy!” he yelled, raising a fist. Harry turned away and caught sight of a bony silhouette in the doorway.

“Aunt Petunia! Tell him- I didn’t do anything to you!”

Uncle Vernon let his fist fall to his side as he turned to his wife, but he kept firm hold of the front of Harry’s shirt.

“He didn’t do anything,” she whispered, hardly audible.

“And I’m supposed to believe you didn’t  _ make  _ her say that?” Vernon scoffed.

“Vernon, please. I was just being stupid,” Petunia said, a bit louder this time.

“Petunia, dear, go into the living room with Dudders. I need to have a talk with Harry.”

“Just let him be,” she protested faintly, horrified at her own defiance.

Vernon’s eye twitched. “Don’t be silly,” he reasoned. “I’m trying to have a…   _ discussion  _ right now. He needs to learn to behave himself in my household.”

Petunia paused, a battle fighting in her head. She conceded with a spasmodic nod and returned to the living room, shaking visibly.

Vernon returned to his prey.

“I’ve had it with your freakishness. Owls! Letters!  _ Those people  _ coming to  _ our house _ ! Through our  _ chimney _ !You’ve hurt my sister! My son! And now  _ Petunia _ ! Look at her- she’s funny in the head because of you! I’m not having it anymore! Not in my house!”

Harry kept his mouth shut, knowing that saying anything would just make it worse.

“You’d better put her right-  _ now _ !”

Harry’s jaw fell open a bit. “How-?”

“I wouldn’t bloody well know, would I?” Vernon shouted.

“Alright, alright! I’ll do it!” Harry made up his mind. “Can you let me go?”

Vernon released his hold on Harry’s shirt, but he stayed guarding the corner of the kitchen he had forced his nephew into, effectively blocking any possible exit.

Harry closed his eyes and began to mutter nonsense words, a faint memory from a summer several years ago tugging at the corners of his mind. “Higgledy-piggledy-jiggledy pocus-hocus…”

Vernon’s face, though menacing, paled slightly at the sound of magic.

“It should be done now,” Harry said, fighting the odd urge to smile.  _ Stop it, Harry. This isn’t funny. _

“Good,” Vernon growled, before taking hold of Harry’s shirt once more and throwing him into the center of the kitchen.

Harry fell forward, face, hands and elbows slamming into the spotless linoleum. The bridge of his glasses snapped. He scrambled to turn himself onto his back and then raised an arm in front of his face for defence, using the other to catch the broken halves of his glasses.

“This has been the last straw, boy!” Vernon roared. Harry squirmed backwards into the fridge and pushed himself upwards. Vernon bent over and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “Are you listening to me?” he cried, spittle flying out of his mouth and catching on the bristles of his mustache.

“Yes!”

Uncle Vernon delivered a slap to Harry’s face. “I’d knock the stuffing out of you,” he began in a dangerous tone, “but obviously that doesn’t work with you. I’ve been trying to squash this  _ shit  _ out of you for years, and you still haven’t learned. So, we’re going to go back to a tried and proven method.” He let out a nasty laugh before calling out. “Petunia, do me a favour and move the things out of the cupboard, will you?”

There was a surprised cough, and then the sound of movement. Harry wondered to himself how his aunt was going to move all of his things on her own. An answer came only moments later.

“Duddykins, would you help Mum clean out the cupboard?”

Harry found himself being shoved into his old cupboard all too soon, limbs cramping as he tried to fold himself through the opening with the help of Vernon’s rough hands.

“Obviously you can’t even use a room of your own properly, boy. I think it’s high time your learn who’s in charge here. None of those crazy folks are coming to save you this time; this is a well earned punishment,” he said through the grate of the cupboard door. It squeaked shut, rusted from years of disuse, and left Harry in total darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the incredibly long wait! My laptop was essentially dead, so I had to wait to get a new one. All of your comments have been lovely, and I am so happy to have so many people enjoy the story this much! I know this chapter isn't as long as some of the previous ones, but I wanted to get this one out asap, since you've all been waiting so patiently!  
> Admittedly, Vernon has been pretty violent in the past few chapters. Based on context from the book, I figured Vernon definitely hit Harry sometimes, and possibly even beat him up once or twice, and it's already canon that Harry's been starved by the Dursleys. I guess this story kind of shows Vernon's abuse spinning out of control as he loses his grip on his wife, and ends up taking it out on the proverbial punching bag of the "family." Anyways, thank you guys so much for sticking with me through these months, I really appreciate it! :)

The cupboard was stifling. Harry, though small for his age, had still grown since he was eleven, and even then it had been horrifyingly small for him. He was now left to fumble in a  cramped space, attempting to prevent his glasses from breaking more. Not that it mattered; it was too dark anyway.

He was malnourished and bruised, left with nothing but his own thoughts and the crushing blackness around him. He felt like he was in a tomb.

Harry was hollow, all emotions leaving him until he was apathetic, numb. It was like his soul had been removed by a dementor. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything anymore.

Time didn’t seem to exist when he was in the cupboard. Days and nights blurred together- even the moments when he was allowed to use the loo (so as to not foul the Dursley’s clean and proper home) felt unreal, moments that were repeated over and over again.

His urine was dark, a sign of his constant lack of hydration. His mouth was parched every moment of the day. Hunger became a constant companion, a dull ache that almost relieved him; at least he knew then he was able to feel  _ something _ .

The atmosphere of the house around him seemed dulled. Maybe it was because his ears were constantly buzzing from the pressing air of the cupboard, or maybe it was because nobody had anything to say, or maybe peace was only possible when Harry had ceased to exist.

Harry made lists in his head constantly, thoughts running together into streams of  _ what-ifs _ and irrational anxieties. There was worry itching at the back of his throat, and yet the hollowness that consumed him kept it at bay.

After some amount of time- days? Weeks? Years? Harry didn’t know- an inhuman shriek reverberated around the house.

There was the sound of Vernon lumbering to the front door, the panicked whispers of Petunia, and an unmistakable fluttering. Harry, slipping into the real world, bolted upwards, bumping his head against the ceiling of his cupboard.

Wingbeats. In the house.

Petunia was screaming madly again, and Vernon was shouting, but Harry was deaf to their noise, focused only on whatever creature had entered.

The animal was flying around at a ridiculous speed, crashing into the walls and portraits around the living room. And whatever it was, it was twittering. Harry could have cried with disappointment; Hedwig did not twitter.

Suddenly, he found his cupboard door flung open violently. A large hand pulled Harry into the bright light of the Dursley’s house. He was dully aware of Vernon pointing a finger, trying madly to make it follow the odd puffball that was now zooming about the hallway. Vernon was shouting something, but Harry didn’t have the energy to decipher what.

His fingers clumsily pulling up the two halves of his glasses, Harry peered through the lenses in order to focus on the creature.

It was an owl.

_ No, _ thought Harry,  _ that’s  _ Ron’s  _ owl. _

Pigwidgeon.

A letter was tied to the owl’s foot, and it flapped madly against his tiny wings. When he had finally realized Harry was in the vicinity, Pigwidgeon let out a happy hoot and alighted on one of Harry’s hands.

Vernon immediately attempted to squash him.

Pigwidgeon darted out of the way and shrieked his displeasure before perching on top of a door frame, disgruntled.

Vaguely aware of how stupid he must look, with his glasses held up to his face, Harry turned to face his uncle.

“It’s a letter. From- them. If I don’t answer it, they’ll come here.”

Vernon swelled at the impossibility of the impending choice. But Harry already knew the decision he’d come to. The last thing Vernon wanted was for  _ those folk  _ to enter his house.

“Petunia. Pen and paper,” he said gruffly.

Harry extended an arm, welcoming the owl to land on him. Pigwidgeon obliged, though he let out a distrustful hoot at Vernon. Harry then realized he would not only need to get the letter off of the owl, but he would also have to  _ open  _ the letter,  _ read  _ the letter, and then  _ write a reply _ to the letter.

“Please,” Harry asked, moving his arm towards his aunt, who had just returned with the pen and paper clutched to his breast. “Can you get the letter off?”

Petunia looked at him worriedly, then cast a glance towards Vernon, asking for permission. She looked about to faint with disgust as her fingers brushed against the owl, but she eventually thrust the letter towards Harry, lip still curled.

Pigwidgeon returned to his perch on the door frame, and Harry removed the letter and its contents (though with some difficulty).

Using one hand to hold a half of his glasses lense and the other to hold the letter, Harry managed to read the untidy scrawl that could be no one but Ron’s.

 

_ Hedwig arrived a little while ago, and she won’t stop pestering us. Mum’s scared half to death. She’s sure something’s wrong. We’re sending someone to check on you. _

_ June 23rd _

 

Harry’s hand shook slightly.

Hedwig was safe. Hedwig was safe, and… somebody was coming. On June 23rd? He couldn’t be sure. Was that the date the letter was signed, or the day somebody was meant to be coming?

“What’s the day?” Harry asked, hoarse.

“June 23rd,” Petunia answered quickly.

There was no way Pig made it to Little Whinging from The Burrow in a day. So somebody was coming, then.

At first, Harry felt a flood of relief. But then came the anxieties.

“I need to use the loo,” he found himself saying.

Vernon looked ready to object, but he took one look at Pigwidgeon, sitting innocently on his doorframe, and thought better. Harry wondered what sort of magical powers Vernon fancied the owl possessed.

Climbing up the stairs was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life, Harry was sure of it. His heart fluttered weakly in his chest, and every muscle ached in protest. The blood rushed to his ears. When was the last time he had been allowed to eat?

When Harry looked in the mirror, he had to quickly raise one half of  his glasses to his face to be sure it was really him.

His skin was pale, save the dark circles under his eyes, as well as the welt on his cheek and the fading bruise on his jaw. The sleeves of his old, baggy shirt were not long enough to conceal the bruises on his wrists. His collar bones were definitely more prominent than a month ago.

Mrs. Weasley was going to have a fit.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry should have felt like smiling. He was going to go The Burrow. The people he loved cared about him. Hedwig was alive and well and waiting for him. But the overarching emotion twisting Harry’s stomach was worry. What would they think, when they saw his bruises and his sickly frame?

_ Everyone’s already worried about you enough, _ Harry told his reflection.  _ You can’t make them worry about something else. At least- not yet. _

Harry knew it would be stupid to hide all signs of the abuse he had faced at the hands of his relatives. Still, his appearance was too shocking, even for himself. He didn’t want to subject them all to the horrid, ghostlike boy he saw in the mirror. No, he had to fix himself up. Quickly.

Though his mouth was more parched than it had ever been, Harry had difficulty drinking at first. His stomach ached so badly with hunger that the thought of putting anything into his body made his insides clench. Harry forced his lips to the faucet, however, and after getting past the initial shock of it, found it even harder to stop drinking.

Harry couldn’t tell if he felt better or not, but he decided that it was a start.

He then tried to rub some color into his cheeks, taking care to avoid the bruise below his eye. For a moment, he considered using Petunia’s makeup. He had seen her blush her cheeks before. Then his mind started racing towards another idea-

Harry stopped himself. While the thought of using makeup to conceal his bruises entirely was tempting, he knew it would only end poorly. Mrs. Weasley would be able to see through him in a second.

Next came his glasses. He fumbled through the cabinets and found a first aid kit, and used medical tape to secure the bridge. The right lens had a crack in it, but at least Harry could see better.

 

. . . . .

 

Harry returned down the stairs, leaning pitifully against the railing. He hated feeling so weak. A small rucksack with the homework Petunia had smuggled him was slung over one shoulder, and he was doing his best to haul down Hedwig’s cage.

“I need the rest of my things,” he said.

Vernon’s mustache twitched in anger, but he didn’t argue. Petunia scurried out of the hall.

“So they’re coming, then,” Vernon growled.

“Yes.”

Vernon’s fist clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again. He was in quite a dilemma.

Harry made it to the bottom of the stairs, where he set down his things before seating himself on the floor, his back leaning against one wall.

“When?”

Harry shrugged. Vernon glared, but could do nothing but pace in agitation.

Pigwidgeon zipped from his place on the doorframe to the railing, then hopped down onto the top of Hedwig’s cage. Harry gave the owl a small smile and extended a hand, letting the bird climb onto his finger. Pig groomed one wing, content.

Petunia returned with Harry’s things, dumping them unceremoniously at the foot of the stairs. Pigwidgeon jumped in surprise.

The wait was agonizing. Petunia bustled about the house, wringing her hands. Vernon stomped around the hall, likely wearing the carpet thin. He grumbled to himself and checked the time repeatedly. Harry tried not to think about anything and instead closed his eyes. After what must have been an hour, however, Harry knew he could wait no longer.

“I need food,” he announced.

Petunia happened to be in the hall at the time, dusting one of the picture frames. Her lips tightened, as they often did whenever Harry spoke. But she didn’t so much as look at Vernon before leaving the hall to enter the kitchen.

She came back with a small plate of food. Some orange slices, a piece of bread, a heap of cold peas, and a glass of milk. Vernon didn’t comment, but his gaze became darker.

Harry put his uncle out of his mind and immediately started on the orange slices. His stomach churned in protest as it tried to figure out what to do with the food, and Harry tried to eat slowly, so as to not upset if further. He took little sips of milk throughout, because the food felt as if it kept getting caught in his throat. Really, the whole ordeal was quite confusing. Harry wanted nothing more than to eat, but his body was so unused to food that it also ached.

_ It’s okay,  _ Harry reminded himself.  _ You’re going to The Burrow, and Mrs. Weasley is going to force feed you so much, you’ll feel like you were never hungry at all.  _ But thinking about Mrs. Weasley made Harry nervous, so he just tried to focus on eating the rest of his bread.

Pigwigdeon, who had been preening his tail, suddenly perked up. A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Harry’s already unsettled stomach turned over.

When Uncle Vernon yanked the door open, there were two wizards standing there. Petunia had resumed dusting, but immediately dropped her duster the moment she had turned round, and her eyes flashed. Uncle Vernon’s jaw tightened, but this was his usual response to anything magical. Harry’s fists clenched before he decided that really, he didn’t have the energy to care about anything anymore, not even who his rescuers were.

Not even if one of them was Snape.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was there, as well. He stood slightly in front of Snape, as if he sensed the visit would go poorly.

“We’re here to pick up Harry,” he said in a businesslike voice.

Vernon tried to speak several times, but ended up grumbling something inaudible and gesturing to Harry.

Harry stood up, making Pigwidgeon flutter onto his shoulder. He began to drag his things behind him, holding Hedwig’s cage awkwardly with the same arm as his rucksack. He felt both Snape and Shacklebolt looking him over hard.

“What happened?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry shrugged, and Vernon stepped in.

“Got in a fight,” he grunted. “You know how it is, boys like him…” he trailed off under Shacklebolt’s gaze, but seemed to think the lie had gone well.

“Is that what happened, Harry?” Shacklebolt returned to his charge.

“Yeah,” Harry found himself saying, before he even knew what he was doing. “Yeah, I got in a fight.” He couldn’t tell if Shacklebolt was distrusting or disappointed. He was hard to read. Snape, however, was not. He looked borderline joyful.

“Yes, I do know how it is,” Snape said to Vernon with a bit of snark. “We’ll take him off your hands for you.”

Vernon was pleasantly surprised.

Snape flicked his wand, and Harry’s things started to rise out of his hands. Vernon was surprised by this as well, but not as pleased. Harry felt the same way, for Snape had started to look through his things before magicking them away to nowhere.

“My, my, is this how you treat your schoolwork?” Snape sneered, flipping through one of Harry’s schoolbooks and eyeing the doodles with one raised eyebrow. Harry watched his sketches pass under the lazy eyes of his Professor, and his face flushed with embarrassment and anger. In sloppy, blotted ink, Ginny’s fierce eyes gazed out from under a paragraph about Goblin wars. Ron’s freckles dotted the corner of one page. Hermione’s bushy hair traveled down the side of a chapter’s headline. The feathers of Hedwig’s wings framed a diagram on Veela populations. Mrs. Weasley’s loving hands folded outward to hold a quote from a Centaur Rights Activist. The hunched, forlorn form of Lupin surveyed a landscape of statistics. The body of Sirius fell backwards into a veil of letters…

“I was going to get rid of it,” Harry mumbled, looking at his feet.

Snape snapped the book shut and tapped it once with his wand, Vanishing the drawings.

“No wonder you can’t keep up with your homework- you’re too busy wasting ink,” he remarked.

“Professor,” Shacklebolt said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

Snape curled his lip, but magicked the book away with the rest of Harry’s belongings.

The two wizards made their way inside without invitation.

“We’re taking you to the Weasley’s,” Shacklebolt informed Harry. “Snape will Apparate there a moment before we do. Have you Apparated before?”

“No,” Harry confessed.

“It’s a bit ah, startling for first-timers. It can be nauseating and draining, if you aren’t prepared. Are you prepared?” Shacklebolt was looking at Harry purposefully.

“I’m sure Potter is up to the task,” Snape said, before leaving with a faint  _ pop _ .

Shacklebolt picked up Pigwidgeon and threw him out the door before turning back to Harry. “Take my arm, and hold on tight.”

"Harry," Petunia said suddenly. Harry turned to her, startled. "Bye." After a pause, he nodded back to her. He wasn't going to forgive her for standing by and doing nothing to stop Vernon. Still, he was grateful for what help she had offered him, and he found himself hoping she found someplace better, someday. Someplace without Vernon.

Harry grabbed Shacklebolt's arm. All of a sudden, there was a horrible feeling all around and inside him. It was dark, and he could feel the world whirling all around him. His hand started to slip, and he felt Shacklebolt shift his grip so that he was the one holding on to Harry, making sure he didn’t fall away into nothingness. Harry felt as if his windpipe was going to constrict and kill him, his brain was surely melting-

The darkness fell away, and Harry found himself standing in the field outside of The Burrow, with a warm and pleasant sun setting in the west and a sweet breeze blowing by from the east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading another chapter of this story! I was so happy to see how excited everyone was about the last upload. So I know Mrs. Weasley isn't in this chapter, and I'm really sorry about that, but I promise she'll be in the next one. In case anyone's worried, I promise there's a reason Snape's here, and I also promise he won't be too horrible. I know Harry still isn't officially back at the Burrow, but I'm starting on the next chapter right now and I plan to give him a nice time, because the poor kid definitely deserves it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red1Der1995 told me yesterday that it's their birthday today, so here's a little present for you! I speed-wrote last night and finished up some editing this morning.  
> Let me know if you have any suggestions for improvement, please! It didn't feel sloppy when I read through it, but I could be misjudging, so any constructive criticism would be more than welcome!

Harry steadied himself on Shacklebolt’s arm, trying to fend off the dizziness that had clouded his mind.

“Potter,” Shacklebolt started, then paused for a moment before amending himself. “Harry. What really happened?”

Harry knew a shrug wouldn’t work this time. Besides, he was so tired, and he needed somebody, even if it was just one person, to know what was happening. The problem was, he didn’t know how to tell him.

“I-” his mouth shut of its own accord. There was no way to put this into words. How could he explain every shove, every slap, every night spent in a dark cupboard? How could he explain that, for the better part of his life, Harry had thought it was normal? How could he explain that a tiny part of him thought that he deserved it? And most importantly, how could Harry say any of these things to anyone, when the only person who really knew what life with the Dursleys was like had died only a few months ago? Harry felt wetness pricking the corners of his eyes, and he swallowed all of his words, save a few. “I don’t know what to say.”

Shacklebolt gave Harry an odd look. It wasn’t really pitying, it was more… understanding. Not like Shacklebolt _really_ understood, but like he knew that whatever this was, it was beyond his comprehending, but he would do what he could for Harry anyways. Harry found a bit of comfort in that, and he leaned a bit more of his weight on the man.

“Let’s get you to The Burrow.”

“Did the Apparition really take that much out of him?” Snape inquired in a derisive tone, walking briskly up to the two through the tall grass. He didn’t say anything more, however, and Harry assumed Shacklebolt had shut him up with a look. At least Snape listened to _someone_.

The walk to The Burrow would have been torturous if Harry wasn’t so out of it. As it was, however, Harry let his mind wander as he walked, and Shacklebolt eventually put an arm around his shoulder to guide him.

“What is Severus Snape’s favorite soup?” came the voice of Molly Weasley from behind her door. Harry could have cried with relief.

“Butternut squash,” he replied stiffly, as if he’d rather not answer that particular question.

“And what’s Kingsley Shacklebolt’s favorite soup?”

“Ham and bean.”

"Harry, what is the model of the car you and Ron flew into the Whomping Willow?"

"Ford Anglia," Harry said, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He hoped he wouldn't have to answer security questions like these on a regular basis.

The door opened and Harry felt himself being led inside. Immediately, he could feel the warmth of the house and smell something amazing cooking on the stove.

“Harry, dear!” Mrs. Weasley dove in for a hug, not even pausing to look at him. Harry did his best to hug back, but mostly he just felt her arms around him. It was really nice. But then she stiffened and pulled back, finally allowing herself a proper look at him. Her eyes travelled from his thin figure to the bruises on his jaw and cheek.

“Hullo, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry offered.

“Who did this?” Mrs. Weasley rounded on Shacklebolt and Snape straightaway.

Snape was all too excited to respond. “Potter here decided to-”

Shacklebolt put up a hand. “Severus. Enough.” He then turned to Mrs. Weasley, his stern demeanor melting away. “I think it would be best, Molly, if Harry and I were to talk. Alone.”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t like that idea. Neither did Harry.

“I’m fine, really. I just need some rest-”

Mrs. Weasley liked that less. However, just as she was about to tell him off, she was interrupted.

“Mum, is Harry here?” Ron peeked in through the doorway, Hermione not far behind. Harry wanted to go to them, wanted to talk with them, but his feet felt leaden and his mouth was filled with cotton.

Mrs. Weasley stood for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Harry hoped she would make up her mind soon; he felt ready to collapse. Shacklebolt must have sensed this, because he put his arm around Harry’s shoulder once again.

“Ron, Hermione, why don’t you two go back to your rooms? Harry won’t be long.”

Ron looked ready to argue, but Hermione tapped him on the shoulder and jerked her head back, signalling him to do as he was told. With a last look at Harry, Ron sulked out of the kitchen.

“Alright,” Mrs. Weasley said in a businesslike tone. “We’re going to all sit round the table. I’ll get you something to eat, and then we’re all going to talk.” She cast a sharp eye at the three of them, daring anyone to argue. Even Snape looked compliant.

Sitting down was relieving. At least, until Mrs. Weasley started drilling for answers.

“When did this happen?”

“I dunno,” Harry said, honestly. He couldn’t remember exactly how much time had passed. His answer must not have been good enough, though, because Mrs. Weasley raised an eyebrow. He tried again. “About a week, maybe a bit less.”

“And who did it to you?”

Snape was excited, waiting for Harry to admit he had gotten into a fight. Harry was tempted to give him the satisfaction. He’d have to deal with everyone being disappointed in him, but maybe they would let him sleep. He wanted to tell Mrs. Weasley the truth. He really did. But admitting it was so very hard. He couldn’t do it.

Harry didn’t say anything.

Finally, Snape boiled over. “He was fighting,” he announced, an almighty smirk on his face. No, Harry decided he didn’t like him having the satisfaction at all. Mrs. Weasley turned to Snape, then sharply back to Harry.

“Is this true?”

Harry shook his head.

“But obviously the boy is-”

“Severus, I’m not going to warn you again. Leave the room if you can’t shut up,” Shacklebolt ordered. Snape huffed, but stayed put so he could glare at Harry from across the table.

“Harry, you need to tell us what happened,” Mrs. Weasley coaxed. Seeing that Harry wouldn’t speak, she tried a different tactic. “Was it someone you know?”

Harry hesitated, then decided that maybe this could work. He nodded.

“Was it someone we know?”

Another nod.

Mrs. Weasley took a deep breath before asking her next question. “Was it one of your relatives?”

Harry steadied himself in a similar fashion. “Yes.” He traced the wood grain of the table with one finger. He didn’t need to look up to feel Mrs. Weasley swelling with rage like a balloon. Shacklebolt went stiff. And Snape didn’t do anything.

“Which one? Give me a name.” She was really trying hard to conceal the anger, likely for Harry’s sake, but she was doing a poor job. Her voice trembled.

What did Harry have left to lose? “Vernon.”

Mrs. Weasley was up and across the room in a second. Shacklebolt followed suit, but not for the same reason.

“Molly, you need to calm down. Harry needs us right now, not vengeance,” he reasoned. After seconds of consideration, Mrs. Weasley took her hand from the doorknob. She still looked livid.

“Really, I’m alright now. I’m back here, so… I’m alright,” Harry said, trying to placate the room. Instead, three pairs of eyes immediately burned into him.

Mrs. Weasley broke her gaze after a time to finish off whatever she was cooking. With angry flicks of her wand, a soup slopped into four bowls and rolls plated themselves.

The fullest bowl and a heaping plate of rolls rested in front of Harry, who suddenly remembered that he had to eat. As hungry as Harry was, the small meal Petunia had given him before still sat uncomfortably in his stomach. He didn’t think he could eat anymore.

“Harry, dear. Your spoon is in the bowl,” Mrs. Weasley prompted.

Harry reached for a roll instead, and he turned it over in his hands. “Mrs. Weasley, can I please just go to bed?”

“In a minute. After you finish your dinner.”

“Perhaps,” Snape began in a tone that was carefully measured, “we should give the Dursleys a visit. To corroborate his story. After all, Mr. Dursley told us that Potter got into a fight, and Potter agreed.”

Harry could have sworn the air crackled as Mrs. Weasley turned to face the professor.

“Do you think he was in any state to _disagree_ with Mr. Dursley at the time?” she spat.

Harry’s cheeks heated up, not liking when people talked about him as though he weren’t in the room. “I’m really not hungry right now, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Nonsense, Harry- you’re skin and bones! Just finish your soup, how’s that?” she turned back to Snape to argue some more, but Harry stopped her.

“Aunt Petunia let me have some food before I came here, so I’m already full.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Harry looked around, confused.

“She… _let_ you have some food?” Shacklebolt asked.

 _Oh,_ Harry thought. _Not the best choice of words._

“Well, I mean-” he broke off, not really knowing what else to say.

Mrs. Weasley looked as though she had had a sudden, horrid realization. “Ron said- your second year, when the boys flew that car… I’m so sorry, I didn’t think- Oh, Harry!” Her voice was getting dangerously hysterical, as though she were ready to start sobbing at any moment. Even Harry had no idea what she was trying to say.

“What are you talking about?” Snape asked impatiently.

Mrs. Weasley did her best to collect herself, then started over. “Ron and the twins fl- went over to the Dursleys’ one summer, before Harry’s second year. When they came back, they told me… they told me the Dursleys had put bars over his windows, and that they were starving him. They were in trouble, and I assumed they were fibbing to get out of it. Harry, I’m so sorry, if I’d have-”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Weasley.”

“No, Harry, it’s not alright. They starved you. They starved you this summer too, didn’t they?” Mrs. Weasley’s eyes strayed to Harry’s collarbones. He shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt.

“Well- yes. But I’m here now. I’ve got food, a bed, Hedwig. I’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Harry tried. He was getting more exhausted by the second, and Snape’s keen gaze was getting uncomfortable.

“There’s no point in having food if you don’t _eat_ it,” Mrs. Weasley reminded him gently.

“I know. I just… it hurts to right now. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

Snape took out a small wooden box from inside his robes, which he opened to reveal a set of vials of potions. He selected a light green one filled with bubbles and set it down on the table perhaps a little harder than was necessary.

“This should help your stomach settle.”

Harry eyed it suspiciously at first, but decided not to argue. The potion was surprisingly pleasant, soothing his throat like honey as it went down. His stomach, which had been squirming ever since he had Apparated, calmed almost instantly. The soup suddenly looked more appealing.

Harry ate the soup quickly (ham and bean), then started on a roll.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said once he had finished.

“No problem at all, dear. Why don’t you go on up to Ron’s room at get some rest? We can talk about all this tomorrow.” She gave him a look that said he had absolutely no choice in the matter.

That was okay. Harry could deal with tomorrow. That night, though, all he wanted to do was sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

How Harry made it up the many steps to Ron’s room, he had no idea. He clutched the railing tightly and focused on just moving one foot at a time, doing his very best to ignore the overwhelming exhaustion. Finally, there was only one flight left.

The door to Ron’s room flew open, and Hermione burst out. She was down the steps as quickly as if she had just Apparated. Ron followed close behind.

Hermione held him in a tight hug, just like Mrs. Weasley had done earlier that evening. And also like Mrs. Weasley, she drew back in concern a second later. She was frowning, but said nothing. Harry flooded with gratitude as she helped him up the last few steps.

The nauseatingly bright orange of Ron’s room was hardly even registered as Harry flopped, face-down, onto the nearest bed. There was a soft hoot, a rush of air from wingbeats, and the sudden weight of an owl on Harry’s back.

“Hedwig,” he murmured. He swore to himself that she would be allowed any treat she wanted for the rest of her life.

“What happened, mate?” Ron asked.

Harry took a while to respond. Both of his friends’ anxiety could be felt from across the room, but he needed a moment to collect himself. He didn’t have any energy left, but Ron and Hermione of all people deserved an explanation.

Gently nudging Hedwig off of him, Harry finally rose into a sitting position before leaning back against the headboard. Hedwig clambered onto his knee, and Harry stroked her back. God, he had missed her.

“I can’t give you the whole story right now. I’m sorry, but… I really need to sleep soon. But I’ll do my best.”

Hermione seated herself on the windowsill, nodding gravely. Ron remained standing but inclined his head, prompting Harry to continue.

“My- my uncle. He, well. You know what he’s like.” They didn’t. “This summer has been really hard, and…” Why didn’t he ever have the  _ words? _

“The bars on your windows,” Ron said. “It’s like that, right?”

“Yes.”

Hermione cleared her throat, ready to speak. Harry anticipated her next words,  _ “I’ve read about domestic violence, Harry, and 1 in-” _

“We weren’t there for you.”

There was a pause as Harry’s brain slowly recognized its own surprise.

“We haven’t been there for you for any of this. Nobody has. Last term, when we went to save- when we went to the Ministry of Magic. You said you wanted to go it alone. We all thought you were crazy for saying it then, but it makes sense now. You’ve been doing everything alone!” Hermione sounded on the verge of tears, but she held them back. “But that’s not going to happen anymore.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “Yeah. You’re going to stay here, in The Burrow. You’ll spend all the holidays with us. I know the ghoul in the attic is loud sometimes, and it’s not as exciting anymore with Fred and George at the shop these days, but- but you’re not going back  _ there.” _

“I-”

“Harry, please. I’m really sorry, but you look like death. You don’t have to explain anymore tonight. Just sleep.”

Hedwig gave the faintest of nibbles to Harry’s thumb, then flew over to the windowsill. Hermione opened the window for her, then started to the leave the room.

“Goodnight, Ron. Goodnight, Harry.”

“G’nite,” Harry mumbled, already feeling himself slipping under.

Ron walked up and awkwardly patted Harry’s shoulder. “We love you, mate.” Then he turned off the light and crawled into his own bed.

Harry was asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know this is the shortest chapter in the history of the world, but... I felt like it needed to be. First off I've been super busy with getting ready for college and second, Ron and Hermione knew to keep it short. Harry was pretty damn tired. I really appreciate all of the comments and support you guys have given me! It might be a little while before I update again, but I plan on making the next chapter longer, and also nicer to Harry. It's time for the comfort part of the hurt/comfort!


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